Page 35 of Someone Like You

IAN

S weat dripped into his eyes, the burn of the salt as grounding as the burn in his exerted muscles.

Back arched off the bench, he pushed the barbell up one last time, failure hitting just as the bar fell back into its hooks.

He thanked the random guy for spotting him, then picked up his towel and his bottle and took a moment to rest, barely hearing the music in his ears

It’d been a tough week.

A week without seeing or hearing from Phil.

A week without Phil’s smart mouth sweetly driving him insane.

He knew he was still going to the gym and to the café because Najeer and Sandra had told him.

They had different schedules, Ian being an early bird and Phil a night owl, so the chances they’d run into each other were slim, but Ian always kept an eye out, just in case.

He wished he could say he did that to avoid Phil, but the truth was that he was desperate to just catch a glimpse of him, to see how he was doing .

To see if he was okay.

The bite of nostalgia forced him to shut his eyes to re-centre himself.

He drank, hoping the water would wash down the bitter taste in his mouth, but, predictably, it didn’t do much.

After cleaning up the bench, he moved to a corner to stretch, then wrapped up the workout with a cool-down walk on the treadmill.

He skipped all the songs on the playlist until he found one he didn’t hate, only to realise halfway through it, when he actually started listening, that, in fact, he hated it more than all the previous ones.

Till now, I always got by on my own, I never really cared until I me—

Skip.

Another poignant ballad came up, but at least it was in a language he couldn’t understand. Good enough. Whoever had made this playlist must have gone through some pretty bad heartache. Not that he couldn’t relate… It was just the last thing he wanted to think about.

Under the shower, the pink bracelet repeatedly snatched his attention.

It was easy to forget it existed when he could hide it under a sleeve, but it never lasted long.

Taking it off would have nipped the issue in the bud, but Phil had placed it there and Ian was determined to wear the bracelet to the grave, whatever the cost.

A girl had given him her number the other day, after asking him to spot her for squats.

They’d talked for a while outside the gym; she seemed fun and interesting, very level-headed for a twenty-six-year-old, and Ian was still debating whether to keep the number or delete it.

Perhaps a woman was what he needed after two failures in a row with men.

No one would’ve been the ideal solution, had he not been in such desperate need for distraction. Life had surprised him once — it wasn’t impossible it’d surprise him again.

Unlikely, yes, but not impossible.

As he walked home, he scrolled through his contacts, trying to find the girl’s number. He remembered her pretty honey eyes and the myriad of freckles, but not her name .

Terri? Thea?

Teresa.

She might be just the diversion he needed to forget : young, sporty, sunny, a pinch of endearing shyness…

You

Hey, it’s Ian from the gym. Fancy a coffee one of th

A notification popped up at the top of the screen. His heart stopped.

Abigail.

He wasn’t ready for this.

What had Phil told her? Did she know they weren’t seeing each other any more? Did she know why ?

He opened the text with a sense of pending doom.

Abigail

We need to have a chat, big man

Ian halted.

You

About what?

Abigail replied with a photo. It was the selfie Phil had taken at the pub.

The sight of it crushed him.

You

I don’t understand

Abigail

Don’t play dumb, it doesn’t suit you

Saturday 5 pm at La Dolce Vita

Ian’s mouth took a wry curl sideways. She wasn’t asking .

You

I’ll be there

The screen blacked out. He pressed his forehead against the phone, groaning inwardly. It’d be three long days until Saturday.

At least he had the pictures now: something to torture himself with for the rest of his days along with the bracelet.

He scoffed to himself. He really wasn’t good at this forgetting thing. If Abigail hated him, he couldn’t blame her. He’d been in her shoes, except, unlike her, he’d been left behind. It wasn’t the confrontation he was afraid of: he had nothing to hide. It was being seen as a back-stabber.

At home, he grabbed a beer and took it to the living room, where he sat alone staring into the void.

There were still a couple of non-alcoholic beers in the fridge.

He doubted he’d ever have the heart to drink them.

They could stay there forever, for all he cared.

Perhaps one day they’d come in handy again.

Someone would come back for them. Hope was free, after all.

A whiny meow preannounced Kibble’s arrival. She came trotting through the door, the belly pouch flapping from side to side as she approached with a string of bubbly mrw mrw mrw that sounded like questions. With one final bossy mrw she jumped onto Ian’s lap and arched up against him, demanding pets.

“Aye, aye,” Ian tittered, obliging the request. “Spoiled wee shite. Thank fuck I’ve got you.” It was like she understood, stretching up until her head poked against his chin. Beard scratches were her favourite.

Ian thought back to how she had cuddled up with Phil after his panic attack despite hissing at him at first sight.

He’d grown on her even faster than he’d grown on Ian, but then again, despite being a notorious hater of strangers, Kibble had a special sensitivity towards human emotions and the trusting way she’d acted around Phil had only reaffirmed Ian’s impression of him .

Not that he hadn’t always known Phil Hanson was a beautiful person, but being Kibble-certified was a status not many had achieved.

Ian himself had had to work for days to earn baby Kibble’s trust, yet this random American dude had shown up and within minutes Kibble had been all over him, purring like there would be no tomorrow.

Not like . There really would be no tomorrow.

Ian sighed. His father was right: why couldn’t he have something uncomplicated for once?

It wasn’t much to ask.

Something good without catches, without sick twists.

Just once .

Just once…

* * *

It was still raining. It hadn’t stopped since the day he’d left Phil by the door of the café and Ian was starting to suspect the weather was just acting as a cruel reflection of his inner state.

If that was the case, this winter was going to be even worse than usual.

He didn’t mind. He loved running in the rain.

Waiting at the red light, he watched La Dolce Vita from afar, its warm lights and cosy facade, and wondered if he’d ever be able to separate the place from the memories it held.

Meeting Abigail there seemed an appropriate way to come full circle, and maybe get some closure.

He wasn’t expecting a jealous tirade — Abigail was too graceful for that —; it’d be a civil heart-to-heart.

He was ready to answer every question in all honesty, if not without shame, without fear.

If Phil had told Abigail the truth, so would he.

The light went green. Even from across the street Ian could tell the café was packed.

Tea time was a nightmare he’d had always steered away from, with few highly motivated exceptions.

Pushing through the door, he was enveloped by the hot, stifling air typical of overcrowded spaces.

Every cell in his body wanted to leave, go backoutside to the fresh air, the peace, but Abigail was there, at the small table by the window that Ian had once considered he and Phil’s table, and the duty he had towards her prevailed over the claustrophobia.

She was in casual clothes — jeans, a knitted jumper, trainers; she could have easily passed as a teenager if her bearing hadn’t had that mature elegance to it.

Even dressed as a kid, even from across a crammed room, she exuded a confidence that most self-professed alpha males Ian had met couldn’t have dreamt of.

As he approached, he felt an irresistible desire to hear her say she wasn’t right for Phil, that she’d be stepping down and leaving Phil to Ian’s care because that was the right thing to do and the best thing for Phil. Everything Ian had said and done, in reverse.

As if.

She glanced up from her phone the exact moment he stopped in front of her, deep brown eyes zeroing in on him, expressionless. “Thank you for coming.”

Ian didn’t reply. He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on the back of the armchair, followed by his hoodie. He would’ve taken off the t-shirt, too, if he could have. The room was too stuffy for his liking.

“I knew he’d given it to you.” Ian noticed Abigail was staring at his wrist. “Please, have a seat.”

And, like a well-trained puppy, Ian sat. He didn’t know how he could be feeling so big and so small at the same time.

There was a cup of tea on the table, a slice of lemon floating in it. Abigail picked it up, peering at Ian from over the rim. “You’re not ordering anything?”

“Not in the mood.”

She nodded knowingly and took a sip. “So.” Another sip, then the cup was set back down. “It has come to my attention that you broke Phil’s heart.”

Ian had anticipated a variation of this line, but not the baffling business-like tone.

“He told you.”

“Of course he did. We tell each other everything. ”

It wasn’t so much the statement that stunned Ian as Abigail’s unblinking self-assurance. ‘We tell each other everything’ ... No resentment, no judgement. Only blind trust that didn’t fear betrayal.

“All I want,” said Abigail, “is to fix this situation as best as we can, as fast as we can. For Phil’s sake.”

For Phil’s sake.

That was all Ian cared about.

“What did he tell you, exactly?”

“Everything.” Abigail crossed one leg over the other, one arm comfortably lying across her lap. “He misses you. Terribly.”